


A Snowball's Chance

by Likerealpeopledo



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Competition, Curling, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Patrick Brewer vs Ronnie Lee - Freeform, Rivalry, Snow and Ice, Snowball Fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2020-12-14 16:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21018920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Likerealpeopledo/pseuds/Likerealpeopledo
Summary: “What did you say to Ronnie, Patrick?”Patrick’s eyes were downcast as he absently fiddled with the sleeve of David’s sweater. “I-I said that she wouldn’t know a dusting of snow if it hit her in the face,” he finished, looking shamefaced.





	1. A Snowball's Chance

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [SCFrozenOver](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SCFrozenOver) collection. 

> Prompt:  
Patrick accidentally enters a vicious snowball fight with Ronnie (think Jim and Dwight in the episode "Classy Christmas" on the Office). Patrick is in way over his head but too stubborn and competitive to admit defeat. David offers his support in the form of hot chocolate, lots of scarves, and the occasional snarky "I told you this wouldn't be a good idea". The townspeople are placing bets on who will win.
> 
> Notes and links to references at end of fic

David wasn’t planning on participating in winter at all this year if he could help it. He had entered the season with the full intention of swaddling himself in every wool knit that Givenchy and Balenciaga and Neil Barrett had on offer while simultaneously working to lower his metabolism and heart rate to that of a hibernating bear. Patrick could do...whatever he liked to do in winter, which by the looks of things, was fucking _ everything_.

“You aren’t seriously leaving the house like that, are you?” David asked his boyfriend, cocooned inside the relative warmth and safety of his blanket nest on the sofa. 

Patrick threw him a droll smile, one gloved hand - which, ok, sure, that could have been worse; it could have been mittened - poised on the knob. For some reason, Patrick was clad in a pair of plaid bell-bottom pants so loud that David could barely hear himself exclaiming in horror over them. 

“If people think that I somehow condoned that—” David said as a warning, struggling to extract a hand from his blanket lair to wave in order to further emphasize his point. He paused. “You know that look is a bridge too far.”

“Well, David, you may have to jump off that bridge because I can’t show up to the curling match in my underwear.” Patrick seemed mostly amused, and in no way conciliatory. Which, he could have at least pretended. But no. Under his winter hat, eyes wide and innocent, Patrick looked almost proud_. _ “We’re all wearing them, if it helps.”

“It does not help, at all, actually,” David said with a sniff. And it really didn’t help, knowing all those hideous pants were just out there in town, roaming around, ready to assail any unsuspecting eyeballs that had the misfortune of landing on them. _ On Gwen. On Bob. On that Jazzagal whose name he’ll never learn. _ Thankfully the sun set practically at lunchtime these days and with any luck, the pants wouldn’t actually glow-in-the-dark. That had to be a trick of the light. _ Please let it be a trick of the light. _ “Promise me you’ll let me burn them when curling season is over.” 

“Of course, David.” Patrick gave another slight smile as he opened the front door and cast a final glance over his shoulder, probably so he could determine just how far on the side of sincerity he was required to fall. Somehow Patrick always managed to calculate how to achieve the bare minimum while still appearing innately charming—his own skewed version of compromise. Patrick was exasperating, and David loved him for it. Still didn’t love the pants, though. Those were atrocious.

“Hey, don’t worry,” Patrick started, eyes crinkling with an implish glint. “I’m sure that Bob and Gwen will gladly invite us over for a celebratory bonfire and some couples time, ooh, maybe some massages!” 

David gave a full-body shudder as Patrick closed the front door with a flourish, because apparently there were several billy goats awaiting one bell-bottomed harasser under their bridge.

“You take that back!” David shouted at the closed door.

The door swung back open, and Patrick’s knit-covered head poked back in. “Okay, I’ll ask them to cancel the bonfire and the s'mores.” 

“I know you think you’re funny but you’re actually very, very cruel.” David scowled.

“David. They’re pants. You’re not even the one who has to wear them. You’ll live.” Patrick tapped a muted beat on the back of the door with his fabric covered fingers. “I’ll be home by nine, we can argue more about it then, okay?” And with that, he disappeared again, taking his shaggy winter curls, his favorite (read: blue) toque, and the world’s most horrifying curling attire with him.

Alone in the apartment, David sighed dramatically, retiring back into his nest to commune with a heaping plate of Marcy’s leftover holiday cookies and a plan to wilt tragically over the injustice of Patrick’s sartorial choices until at least 8:45.

* * *

David was surprised when a shell-shocked, befuddled, and mostly sheepish Patrick arrived home well before nine sporting a bruised and swollen lip, a thin line of blood trickling from his nose. 

“What happened?” David asked, immediately hopping up off the couch and rushing to Patrick’s side. His empty cookie plate slipped unnoticed to the floor.

With staccato movements, Patrick brusquely removed his toque, unzipped his jacket, toed off his wet boots, and steadfastly refused to meet David’s concerned gaze. “Got hit in the face,” he told the floor, his words slurring slightly. 

“Honey,” David tilted Patrick’s head up to examine the damage, gingerly palpating the area with his fingertips. Patrick flinched minutely as David’s fingers explored. “Let’s go into the kitchen. There’s better light.” 

David took a step toward the kitchen, then paused and turned back to Patrick. First things first.

“Take off those pants.” David commanded.

Patrick’s injured nose was crinkled. “David, I don’t think that—”

“Take. The. Pants. Off.” He repeated, stalking toward Patrick. He hoped he seemed imposing, because those pants were abominable and they had to _ go_. “Now.” 

“Okay, David, I am.” Patrick started to unzip and before he had them halfway over the swell of his ass, David had two hands on either side of Patrick’s hips and was pulling them down and off himself. He felt a little like a magician whipping a tablecloth out from under a full set of dinnerware with the theatrics of it all, and he found himself biting back a triumphant _ voila! _ as he marched into the bathroom and disappeared the wastes of fabric as deeply into the recesses of the laundry hamper as they would go without descending directly into hell. Where they clearly belonged.

David returned from his mission and perused his phone while Patrick grumbled at him churlishly, “I just need some ice, David, this isn’t a case for WebMD.” David briefly surveyed Patrick’s ashen face, raised an eyebrow, and continued his search unmoved. Impatient, Patrick shouldered past him to open the fully stocked freezer himself and huffily removed a tray of ice cubes.

“Mmm, but what if that’s not what the internet recommends?” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d needed to administer first aid, and Patrick’s face was pretty high stakes. He’d overseen a few bloody noses for coked up friends in what now seemed like a galaxy far far away, but maybe that skill didn’t directly translate to business majors with fat lips and overly competitive streaks. 

And anyway, it was hard to advocate for the advice of strangers when the blood was pooling in the sweet little bow of Patrick’s nearly edible lip. “Here, give me that,” David commanded, his own patience wearing thin. He ended up knocking Patrick away from the counter with his hip and briefly manhandling his uncooperative boyfriend so that his ass was pressed up against the kitchen table. “Now, sit,” David pointed at the table.

Patrick complied, blinking up at him owlishly. “Okay, I’m sitting.” He gestured expansively at his still bare legs, his sturdy thighs level with David’s hips. He wore the bewildered expression of someone who didn’t know if he should be terrified or turned on. 

“The next part is going to be harder.”

Quirking a curious brow, Patrick looked as if he wanted to bite back a joke. “Oh is it?”

“Just…” David wasn’t sure if he should lean into the double entendre or the caretaking, but either way, they were facing imminent swelling. “Stay still.” 

Patrick schooled his face into something more serious, probably an effort made to trick David into believing that he was willing to be compliant. Luckily, icing a wound (still, ew) wasn’t a two-handed job, so David could also perform some surreptitious searches on his phone to confirm the efficacy of his methods, since his first instinct, wanting to vomit, had seemed incorrect. 

David made the grievous error of typing _ facial laceration _ and _ facial transplant surgery _ into an image search, and after he’d made a few high pitched keening sounds, Patrick gently peeled the phone from his hand. “Just put the ice cubes in a sandwich bag, maybe use a kitchen towel so it doesn’t sting as much?” Patrick suggested, rubbing soothingly at David’s side. It probably wasn’t best practice to have the patient console the caregiver, either, but he hated to make assumptions.

David did as Patrick instructed though, carefully selecting a kitchen towel that wouldn’t further abrade Patrick’s already torn skin and cracking fresh ice cubes out of the tray.

“I told you that curling is dangerous,” David said softly, biting his own lip in concentration so he didn’t hurt Patrick any further while he attended to his injuries.

“The most dangerous thing that happens at our curling matches is when Bob has chili for lunch.” A look of mild disgust briefly passed over Patrick's pale face. “Which was not an issue because I didn’t even get there.”

“So you wore those pants in public for nothing?” David asked and pulled back again, incredulous, because _ really _and Patrick threw him a pained look. “I’m sorry. I’m still just very...distressed. You know that I don’t do well with blood, or injury, or you know, plaid.”

“I’ve noticed.” Patrick lifted David’s arm so he could reapply the ice, then closed his eyes when David’s hand once again met his face. Patrick maneuvered a bit so he could trap David more effectively between his broad, stocky thighs, and David sighed happily when Patrick wrapped his arms tightly around his waist and tugged him closer.

Bending down, David dropped a kiss on the crown of Patrick’s head, briefly burying his nose in the soft staticky waves of Patrick’s hair. “Do you think this might have been some kind of hate crime?”

“Against the pants? No, I don’t think so.” There was a beat of silence. “It was Ronnie,” Patrick finally mumbled, and with no small degree of sheepishness, mostly in the direction of David’s shoulder.

“Ronnie punched you?” Really, nothing in this town should surprise David anymore, although Ronnie didn’t really seem as if she’d be physically violent without cause, and Patrick did walk a very thin, almost invisible line, where Ronnie was concerned. It made Patrick seem more human, maybe, that Ronnie found him insufferable and, in turn, it made David feel less flawed, because maybe it meant that Patrick wasn’t perfect either and they could be imperfect together.

“No, she didn’t hit me. Not with her hand, anyway.” Patrick responded, annoyed, and then tilted his head back so he could open one eye and narrow it at David for effect. Less assuredly, he muttered into the fuzzy sleeve of David’s sweater, “It was a snowball,” his voice lowered even further, “but I think might have had some gravel mixed in.”

“Ronnie threw rocks_? _At your face?” David was incredulous. “But now you—you have abrasions! Lacerations!”

“Well, I doubt that her goal was lacerating me, David.” Patrick squinted at the word choice. “It was probably an accident while she was collecting the snow from the road, since the precipitation wasn’t that heavy and so it would have been easy to scoop up—” David motioned impatiently for Patrick to skip the explanation in favor of telling the damn story. If this incident left even a trace of visible scarring for their wedding photos, David was absolutely suing both Ronnie and Patrick for psychological damages. “Anyway, it definitely felt like gravel.” 

It was preposterous, really, and David just didn’t see how it was possible. “No. Nope. No. That is not...people don’t just hurl projectiles at unarmed people without provocation.”

Patrick looked away, not meeting David’s eyes. “Well, it—it wasn’t exactly without provocation,” he muttered.

David paused. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Uh, do you remember when Ronnie and I got into that argument at the Cafe a few weeks ago?”

The hair rose on the back of David’s neck. At the time, David hadn’t even paid it much attention, since a conversation about the minutiae of snowfall totals was less interesting to him than, say, basically anything else on earth. Also, Stevie had been texting him a truly gruesome tale about a bathroom hook-up she’d just had at the Wobbly Elm and he’d needed to understand those details far more urgently than the nonsense about snow. He remembered announcing loudly that he didn’t care for any snow at all, and could Twyla please bring him more hot cocoa. He also had a vague recollection about Patrick fuming about something as they’d walked home, his ears tinged red and his neck flushed, making all his most cogent, salient points completely outside of Ronnie’s earshot.

Now things were starting to make sense. “Wait. Wait. You said something. I remember, you said something as we were leaving—”

“I didn’t say anything.” Patrick shook his head in blatant denial.

“No, you did. I remember because in all your huffing and puffing you’d left your gloves and we had to go back.” David’s hands moved animatedly, almost without his control. He was actually getting kind of breathless. “Yes! And you turned around and you said—” 

“No, David, please—”

“What did you say to Ronnie, Patrick?” 

Patrick’s eyes were downcast as he absently fiddled with the sleeve of David’s sweater. “I—I said that she wouldn’t know a dusting of snow if it hit her in the face,” he finished, looking shamefaced.

David gasped and dropped the towel, scattering the ice cubes across the kitchen floor. 

Patrick _ tsked _ softly under his breath as an errant ice cube skittered against the arch of his socked foot. “Okay, that was a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

Now that David understood the full significance of the powder keg that Patrick had just inadvertently ignited, a little ice on the floor didn’t seem dramatic at all. 

“You have to know that this isn’t going to turn out well.” He covered his face with his hands and peered out at Patrick through the space in his fingers. 

“I mean, it turned out fine during baseball season.” 

“Do you think that has anything to do with you winning?”

Patrick gave a noncommittal shrug. “Maybe.”

David couldn’t even articulate what he was most frightened of, other than he knew this had the potential to spiral...way too far out of control. It started with a bloody nose and ended with...”So how does one win a snowball fight? Is it the person who walks away with the most intact limbs? Both eyes? All their faculties?”

“I won’t get hurt, David.” Patrick said, taking the remains of the ice pack from David and stubbornly pressing it to his injured lip with a little too much vehemence. At David’s raised eyebrow, he added defensively, “Anymore.”

“Yes, well, that’s probably a good start.” 

“It’s just a snowball fight, okay?, I’ve got it under control. This is gonna be fun.” He clapped his hands together, hopping down from his perch on the table then swaggering over to where David was now leaning on the counter. David allowed himself to relax a little as Patrick pulled him in, kissed his neck, wrapped him in strong, capable arms. “Besides don’t you want to marry the reigning snowball champion?”

“I mean, if Ronnie’s into it…” David teased and Patrick deflated a bit. “No, of course, honey. You’ve definitely got this.”

David wasn’t sure whether or not he believed what he was saying, but what he did know was that this probably was not a good idea, and because of that, he was never going to be able to talk Patrick out of diving in, lip first.

* * *

“So, I know I’m not an expert on sports, but don’t most snowball...things take place outdoors?” David questioned as he found Patrick slumped miserably over a pile of books and papers at their kitchen table the next morning. 

Patrick gazed up at him through half-lidded eyes. There were creases on his cheeks from laying on his sweater and his hair was standing up as if he’d been running his fingers through it in frustration. “You can’t just start throwing snowballs, David,” he argued, “there’s research involved. Preparation.”

“Preparation.” David repeated skeptically.

“Yep.” Patrick said, fighting back a yawn.

“So then what happens? After we prepare?” David asked, wincing at even having to ask the question. So much of what this was about to entail was going to be painful, and if he didn’t start ripping off the Band-Aid of his dread, he was never going to make it to the actual snowball fight. 

Patrick put down the diagram he’d been studying. It looked like it might have been some kind of map, but it was hand-drawn. Next to his elbow and scattered around the table were an assortment of blueprints, a few pictures of weapons, and several different To Do lists written in Patrick’s obsessive blocky hand. Patrick looked up at David, his mouth in a determined line. “Then, David,” he said solemnly, “we fight.”

“Oh good.” David massaged at Patrick’s hunched shoulders then leaned over to pick up one of the books. “_The Art of War? _” He read outloud. “So I see we’re still firmly entrenched in the ‘this is going to be fun’ stage.”

Patrick rolled his eyes as David flipped through the pages. _ Only enter battles you know you can win _ was written in one of the margins, then underlined, highlighted, and starred. “The themes are universal,” Patrick protested. 

David didn’t know enough about that to argue. “Well, what does Sun Tzu have to say about waffles?” David asked, returning the book to the table and walking toward the freezer. He was starving and in no mood to face the day, considering chances were extremely high that the only thing anyone would want to talk about would be Patrick and Ronnie’s stupid contest.

“Um,” Patrick started as David pulled on the handle and was surprised when several snowballs slid out of the freezer, dropping to the floor and onto David’s Ugg boots. “So yeah, I may have also started a stockpile.”

“Preparation. Got it.” David said evenly, nudging one of the balls with the toe of his boot. By the end of this thing, he was expecting a Nobel Prize for most supportive fiancé. Or at the very least, a series of apologetic blowjobs. “Again, I’m going to ask, but feel free to lie, what happens next?”

Patrick stood up from the table, did a little stretch and then bent to start collecting the fallen snow that was slowly melting onto their kitchen floor. He deposited most of it into the sink then turned to David, his eyes tired, his lip still swollen. “Strategists know how they’re going to win before they even start the battle.” That definitely sounded like Sun Tzu again, and not his sweet little business major. Someone had let Competitive Patrick out of the box, apparently. “Come on, David, just trust me,” his voice was low as he enfolded David into his arms and nuzzled at the line of his jaw. 

“In most things, I do,” David groaned as Patrick licked at the vulnerable skin of his neck. “You’re trying to distract me, aren’t you?”

It shouldn’t have been as hot or as adorable as it was when Patrick pressed soft kisses to David’s cheek and lips and jaw and finally said, in a kind of breathless whisper, “In the midst of chaos, there is always opportunity.”

* * *

Sundays were traditionally easy days at the store because the hours were shorter and fewer people were out shopping, so it was often a day spent straightening and getting things settled for the week ahead. They were running a bit late, though, thanks to Patrick’s newly developed paranoia (_“It isn’t paranoia. Recklessness leads to destruction, David.”) _forcing them to take an excessively circuitous route to work in case anyone was planning a sneak attack on their usual one. 

A pile of deliveries was heaped on the front steps when they arrived at work, and David held the door for Patrick as he chivalrously carried in the first armload. 

“Is it weird that we got deliveries on a Sunday?” Patrick raised an eyebrow as he started slicing the packing tape on the largest box and David turned to leave so he could grab the last few packages. David was halfway to the door, his back still to Patrick, as he heard a series of mechanical whirring noises, several pops and thumps, and Patrick saying, “What the fuck?” in a tone and cadence that David wasn’t often privy to hearing.

“What the hell was that?” 

Ice crystals and chunks of fluffy white snow were clinging to Patrick’s toque, his half-zipped jacket, to the wall behind his head. Small mounds of snow covered the counter of the cash register, all the way to the lip balms. Melting snow dripped down into Patrick’s open shirt collar too, winding into the dip of his collarbone. “It looks like someone left us a snowball death trap,” Patrick said through clenched teeth. 

David peered uneasily into the open and seemingly empty box. A collection of variously sized springs topped with flat metal plates had been adhered to the bottom, clearly arranged to “detonate” when opened by its unsuspecting victim. Though there was no note or indication of who might have sent it, it was pretty clear that the contraption had originated with Ronnie.

After giving Patrick a quick once over to ensure that the only thing injured was his ego, David kissed him and patted his arm. “There’s probably no chance you’re going to let this go now, is there?”

Patrick shook his head gravely. “Not a snowball’s chance in hell,” he said, then went to grab the broom and some towels to clean up the evidence of where he’d just been attacked in his own store. His shirt was still damp a few minutes later, and he rejected David’s offer to let him run home and get him some dry clothes. But then Sophie stopped in to talk about a line of new facial serums and Patrick excused himself to take a long lunch, returning when it was almost closing time, not giving David a moment to contemplate what might be going on in Patrick’s frustrated head. 

David was straightening the moisturizers and Patrick was sweeping the floor when the bell over the door jingled. David watched as Patrick’s shoulders stiffened and he collected himself to his full height when he’d realized who had just entered. “Ronnie.” He gave their guest a curt nod.

“Patrick.” Ronnie walked toward the counter and David instinctively moved to step in front of Patrick, effectively blocking her path. He didn’t know what he thought might happen; he was vaguely picturing Ronnie tackling Patrick to the ground and smashing a handful of rocky snow into his face. His urge was to protect and that seemed right, somehow. Even if Patrick didn’t think he needed protection. Patrick pressed a reassuring hand against the side of David’s bicep and gently brushed past so that he and Ronnie were face to face.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“Nope, just browsing.” David watched as Patrick’s fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He pretended not to notice how much Patrick’s hands seemed to be shaking.

Ronnie smiled cooly, unzipping her coat to reveal a t-shirt covered with her own smiling face; _ Now That’s How I Do Business _arched over her countenance in a tasteful script. “How’s business?” 

“Thriving,” David said, answer drenched in sarcasm. They hadn’t seen a person who’d spent any money in hours, and now David was wondering if she’d somehow managed to organize a store boycott in addition to multiple snow assaults. God, Ronnie was good. She’d probably read _ The Art of War _ too.

Twisting around, Patrick mouthed _ “Stop” _ to David, then he turned back to Ronnie and crossed his arms defensively, discomfort evident in every line of his body.

“Haven’t seen you around town much today,” Ronnie said, nonchalantly picking a parsnip from the winter produce display and examining it intently. “Heard about your thumb. I mean, face. Sorry about that, by the way.”

David could have sworn he heard Patrick repeat, “Sorry about _ your _ face,” under his breath, but he was sure that couldn’t have been right. 

“What’re you doing here, Ronnie? Did you just come to gloat?”

Ronnie shrugged. “Why, is that what you would have done?”

David could see Patrick’s petulant scowl reflected in the store window. “No.”

“If you say so,” Ronnie gave another noncommittal shrug. David felt a little guilty for the moments he spent admiring how aggressively calm Ronnie was; what David wouldn’t give to possess just one iota of that kind of self-assured gravitas. “Do you guys still have that goat’s milk hand cream?” she asked, turning to David, as if Patrick wasn’t a seething mass of competitive rage just a few feet beyond her. “My hands get so chapped and that stuff is a godsend.” 

They did, in fact, have the hand cream in stock, so David rang her up, and Ronnie left. He turned to find Patrick frozen by the produce in some kind of fugue state.

“So, how do you think that went?” David nudged his boyfriend, whose face was still bright red, and watched as the flush from Patrick’s face and neck crept deeper into the vee of his sweater. “Would you say that this is progress, or…”

Patrick, who was looking like he might be capable of actually breathing fire, expelled a short breath through his nose. “It’s fine, David.” 

Something was lodging itself in David’s chest but he couldn’t decide if it was dread or disappointment or just the plain worry that things weren’t actually _ fine, David_. They finished their closing duties at a rapid clip, David working quickly so he could do something to mitigate the uncomfortable silence that was enshrouding them.

“You can take the car home. I’m going to stay here and make some more snowballs.” Patrick announced flatly as he pulled on his jacket. David hadn’t seen him this upset since he’d lost that game of shinny against Gwen. 

“I’m coming with you.” David said, gathering up his coat and scarf and bundling himself tightly before Patrick could refuse his offer. He rubbed his hands together. “Tell me how you want your balls.”

A little bit of tension melted away from Patrick’s shoulders, and his eyes softened with a smile, even though the line of his mouth was still tight. “David, you don’t have to—”

“No, I want to.” David half-lied. Of course he didn’t want to, but Patrick’s face had just lit up for the first time in several hours. He wanted to nurture that hope, catch it, hold it for awhile. “This will be good for both of us.” Okay, that may have been a bit of a stretch, but he at least had to try. David started to pull on one glove and then wondered if he should just voluntarily succumb to the ensuing frostbite and leave them off entirely.

“You think that helping me make snowballs will be good for us?” David decided to ignore the flicker of doubt in Patrick’s voice for the good of their relationship.

“I’ll always do whatever you want with your balls. You only have to ask.”

David felt a little flutter in his chest when Patrick’s lips finally curled into a delicate half-smile. He’d missed that smile. “Mainly, I’d appreciate it if they’re aerodynamic.”

“Hmm,” David played along, chin bobbing. “I have always found your balls to be extremely aerodynamic.”

“Robust. Very symmetrical.” Patrick continued, straight-faced, looping his scarf around his neck.

“Mhm, no, cannot have a ball that’s asymmetrical. So imbalanced.” As they opened the door, David was immediately greeted by a blast of frigid air that stole his breath and constricted his lungs. Balls or no, this was starting less than optimally.

“Well, welcome to the war room,” Patrick gestured loosely to the nearby snowpile and two old chairs that were placed next to the side door to the store. The austere space, that must have been assembled during Patrick’s lunch, also contained a small table and yet another pile of diagrams pinned under an old camping lantern. Patrick sat down in one of the chairs, then looked up at David. “Do you really want to help me do this?” He questioned, stomping at the ground to loosen the hard-packed snow beneath his feet.

David shivered, surveying the quiet calm of the alleyway, then glanced over to the warm, welcoming light of the cafe across the street, and back to his boyfriend’s sweet expectant face. Truthfully, he hated everything about this except for Patrick and he desperately wanted to go home. “There’s nowhere I’d rather be,” David lied, sinking into the second chair, teeth already chattering.

The cautious smile that spread across Patrick’s still healing face was slow but bright. “Thank you, David.” He leaned across the tiny table, chest obscuring the lamp, and planted a freezing kiss on David’s cheek. David shivered. “Now, the objective here is to avoid any kind of...projectile dysfunction.”

David nodded seriously. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“So what do you think the key is to forming the most aerodynamic snowball?” David wanted to be irritated that he was being somehow patronized but something about Patrick’s tone had him picturing his boyfriend as a children’s librarian or a science teacher soliciting a hypothesis for his next experiment. It was very sexy and if nothing else, the idea distracted David from the miserable cold for at least a few seconds. 

“Does it somehow involve my warm bed and a hot toddy?” David asked, disdainfully picking up a handful of wet snow and eyeing it suspiciously, because it might also contain face-altering rocks, or ice moths, or tiny frozen businesswomen in sneakers.

“No, but it does involve both physics and geometry, so it’s equally as comforting.” Patrick responded jovially, as if he was not an adorable lunatic. “David.” Patrick’s voice was soft and sort of tender, then, without even a trace of a joke. “You really don’t have to do this with me if you don’t want to, I’m absolutely okay doing this on my own. It really isn’t a two person job.”

David started to protest that everything would be a two person job now and stopped himself. It was too cold for sentiment _ and _ personal growth. “I’m fine and I want to help.”

“You’re shivering.” Patrick pointed out unhelpfully. 

“You’ve just described my inherent condition from October until early June, I’m used to it.” David couldn’t decide if the reason that he wasn’t giving in was that he was trying to prove something to himself or to Patrick. Maybe he just didn’t like the idea of Patrick sitting out here alone, in the dark, for the hours he knew Patrick would devote to this task. It had barely been twenty-four hours and David could already see the toll that the contest was taking on him; Patrick would be limping to victory at this rate. 

Patrick gingerly set down the snowball he’d been carefully shaping with tiny little pats to reach over and touch David’s wool-covered shoulder. “I don’t know if I can afford having your frozen corpse on my conscience, okay? I appreciate what you’re offering to do here but really, I equally appreciate you keeping the bed warm for me. It’s been a really long day, and I will be very happy when I’m able to climb into it with you later.”

“Hmm.” David still hesitated. On one hand, devoted partner in business and in love, on the other - “I may even turn on the electric blanket,” he said enticingly, watching Patrick’s face carefully for signs of disappointment or disillusionment. “Are you sure?”

“Second easiest decision of my life.” Patrick’s lips curved with a smile and David’s body warmed with the memory of the proposal and Patrick saying those words for the first time. “Seriously, David. Go.”

David wouldn’t say that he was proud of it, but Patrick had barely finished his sentence before David was out of his chair. “Okay, thank you. But don’t stay out too long, okay?” He wouldn’t have called it a run exactly, more like a brisk, purposeful walk, including a detour to the cafe to ask Twyla to deliver hot tea to the alley every forty-five minutes to keep Patrick from freezing solid. 

Once he’d arrived home, David contributed doubly to the cause: he turned the thermostat up to eighty and the electric blanket up to high; Patrick would definitely thank him when he finally arrived home.

Several hours and three hot toddies later, Patrick did not, in fact, appreciate the bed-warming to the fullest of his capabilities. He returned home as promised, cold and tired, cheeks chapped and red from the whipping wind. He gave David a small wave then dropped directly onto the couch with an exhausted thud, shoes and coat still on. 

When David tried to coax him off the couch, where he was clearly beginning to doze, Patrick swatted him away, rolling over and mumbling about the apartment feeling like a sweat lodge. Once Patrick was snoring softly, David removed his shoes and gently unzipped his coat, easing it down and off of his limp arms, then covered him with one of their cozier throw blankets. 

After dropping a warm kiss onto Patrick’s sleeping forehead, David climbed back into bed and snuggled down into his own blankets. He tried to tell himself that he wasn’t disappointed, that they’d have plenty of nights together, that winter and this snowball fight couldn’t possibly last forever. Somewhere in the night, he felt the mattress dip, and Patrick climbed in, curling around David warm and solid and strong. “I’m sorry,” Patrick said into the skin of David’s bare neck. 

It was the last decent night of sleep either of them would have for weeks.

* * *

For the past week, David had found himself waking daily to an empty bed and a note that Patrick had gone into work early so he could get some quality time with the store’s superior wifi signal and the new laptop they’d just purchased, allegedly _ for work purposes only, David_. 

Surveying the empty apartment, David was beginning to see how much this ‘snowball’ fight was slowly consuming their lives. The window was propped open so Patrick could properly _ acclimatize _ to the wintry conditions; there were still piles of snowballs where David’s ice cream and his waffles used to live in their freezer. The pair of weights Patrick was using for conditioning (David had been flummoxed to learn, when Patrick said that, he wasn’t actually referring to his hair) sat in David’s path to the bathroom and even if they’d had frozen waffles, he couldn’t have eaten them at the table because a scale-model diorama of the town was currently occupying the entire thing. Frankly, David was surprised that Patrick hadn’t wheeled a full-sized cannon into the apartment by this point, although, frighteningly, there was probably still time.

Since he wasn’t in any hurry to spend his day watching Patrick obsess over street views of Google maps so he could plan his best modes of attack, David decided to take a leisurely, albeit cold, walk into work directly through the center of town. 

It had been a miscalculation on his part, he’d be the first to admit that. First, Roland stopped him to ask whether or not he’d put down any bets on the snowball fight outcome, because Lorenzo was giving great odds if David wanted to bet on Ronnie to win. Then, less than a block from the store, Bob crossed the street, and David almost stepped directly into a slushy snowpile when he noticed what Bob was wearing: a t-shirt that featured a drawing of cartoonish thumb with distressingly familiar features. 

“All right, that’s it,” David announced as he finally entered the store and found Patrick hunched over the counter, diligently making notes on what was probably his thousandth draft of his pending strategic maneuver. “We’re moving.”

“I take it you’ve seen the shirts.” Patrick said as he met David in front of the counter and wrapped him in his arms. David closed his eyes, settling against Patrick to enjoy his unyielding warmth. “I should have warned you.” 

“Yes, you should have.” David agreed. “I think the only thing that’s going to help me feel better is knowing that you have a superior plan of attack that you plan on enacting very soon, because I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

“I mean, yes, I have this...under control.” Patrick responded just slowly enough to plant a lingering seed of doubt. David momentarily worried that he might have to call Lorenzo and bet against Patrick too, like it seemed half the town already had.

“I was just wondering what your plan was looking like, if you were ready to share any morsels—”

“No, I mean, I feel like this version definitely exploits Ronnie’s weaknesses,” he gestured toward his omnipresent paper mess, which David noticed now contained a diagram of something that looked eerily like a catapult. “That’s a trebuchet,” he said, a little too proudly, when he noticed David looking.

“Oh my God.”

“Anyway, planning is sort of...fluid right now. It’s more of a deep dive into available resources.”

“Resources?”

“You think Ronnie doesn’t have resources? She’s a contractor, David, she has hook-ups. She built a mechanical snowthrower in a cardboard box and ambushed me. How am I supposed to compete with that without some reinforcements of my own?”

“What kind of reinforcements?” David was immediately suspicious, and rightfully so, apparently.

“Well first,” Alexis popped out of the back room, still bundled in her boucle knit coat, her high-pony dancing as she spoke. “Our sweet little thumb is going to need some marketing and an itty bitty image overhaul, because those t-shirts, woof, David.”

“Well, I didn’t make them!” David protested. And anyway, he was still trying to figure out if that drawing of Patrick qualified as slander or libel or if he was just going to have to set fire to Jocelyn’s silk screen machine and never find out for sure.

“Hmm, maybe instead of t-shirts, we could do something in a super cute fashion-forward scarf...” Alexis trailed off, eyes scanning the store.

Actually, that was an excellent idea. “One of our vendors has a really beautiful merino wool that she’s hand-dyed this season, and in an ombre blue motif, maybe with some embroidery…” David said wistfully. Maybe Patrick’s initials, or a Rose Apothecary logo...he needed to concentrate on getting Patrick on track, though, and a full public relations push didn’t seem like the way to go about it. “But whatever you want, honey.” 

Patrick seemed unmoved by the idea of scarves, but he eventually capitulated to Alexis’ suggestions about what she termed _ crisis management _ and listened politely as she shared her own tales of snowball related shenanigans. It was probably the fiftieth time David had heard the story about when she and Prince Ratislav had fled from rogue Interpol agents and escaped by pelting them with snowballs and just _ a wee little lipstick bomb _that the Prince’s protective detail had supplied, but he’d still laughed at the ridiculousness of it anyway. 

After Alexis had finally taken her leave, Patrick held up one of the pages he’d been sketching on earlier, revealing a sort of lopsided looking blueprint of the town. “I’ve been working on this all day and I still can’t seem to get it right,” he complained.

David approached to examine the sad smooshed little map, and on his way, tripped over an old styrofoam cooler that was sitting on the floor next to the cash register. A fine mist swirled out from under the lid as he’d jostled it. “Excuse me.” David cleared his throat with a bit more force than necessary. “Are we harvesting organs now?”

“Wait. What?” Patrick looked at his map and back at David.

“Organs. Are we harvesting or transplanting?” David repeated, pointing at the floor.

“Or…” Patrick was clearly having trouble parsing, but his puzzled eyebrows relaxed as David’s meaning became more apparent. “No. Oh. No. David, no.”

David waited for a more detailed explanation as patiently as someone at the end of their mental rope could, which was to say, not long. “Okay, so what, exactly, are we doing with a styrofoam cooler full of dry ice? I haven’t seen that stuff since my mother recreated selected scenes from Beetlejuice at one of Alexis’ Halloween parties.”

“It’s just a way to do some flash freezing. I actually got a bead on some liquid nitrogen, but I have to drive to Thornbridge to pick it up and the dry ice is a stand-in.”

Something told him that Patrick hadn’t taken a sudden interest in molecular gastronomy, and yet he’d bet today was definitely giving him a stomachache. “I’ll take your word for it,” David said, turning back to the sad map and making his own attempt at amateur cartography, perhaps in part to rid himself of the spectre of Patrick’s poor thumb eyes peering out over the zipper of Bob’s coat. “As long as you think it’s a good idea.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Patrick said, clicking play again on his YouTube tutorial on how to build a trebuchet, as if that was a perfectly reasonable thing to want to do on a Thursday afternoon.

David watched Patrick work for a few minutes, wishing he knew what he wanted to say, or how he wanted to say it, and feeling like they were getting further away from a resolution to this instead of closer.

* * *

Two days later, David was on the road doing vendor calls when his cell phone rang and Ronnie’s monotone greeted him through the relative static of Patrick’s phone. “Don’t panic, but I’m on my way to the hospital with Patrick.”

“Too late.” His heart was beating out of rhythm. The panic had already landed. “The hospital?”

“In Elmdale,” she said firmly. Almost as an afterthought, she added, “And I’ll send someone to fix the window he broke at your store.”

“He broke the win—What?” David had pulled over to the side of the road because the road was already somehow wavering, and he lowered his head onto the steering wheel. He knew he needed to drive, but he couldn’t breathe and even though breathing didn’t seem directly related to driving, it still felt important. Something he should be doing. “Ronnie.” He sort of gulped. “Tell me what’s happening.”

“I don’t know, David--” There was a bit of noise, a scuffle, Ronnie’s voice muted through her hand, “No, don’t touch that. Here, hold this. No, don’t close your eyes, it’s not time to sleep.” It sounded like she was talking to an infant, or a puppy, or Roland.

“Ronnie!” David said more loudly than polite, still gasping at air that didn’t seem to want to enter his lungs. “I need you to talk to _ me _now.”

“He’s gonna be fine. He’s walking. He’s talking. A lot.” At that, she sounded mostly chagrined. “It’s just a bump on the head.”

In the background, David could hear Patrick loudly protesting about “speed and trajectory,” which David had to admit was pretty impressive for someone with a head injury and probably meant that Patrick was mostly okay. 

Treating David like a capable person who was not panicking and who could actually handle a crisis, Ronnie patiently gave David directions for alternate snow routes and a recommendation for a mechanic to get better snow tires so by the time David had recovered enough to pull back onto the road and set out for the hospital, Patrick had already been triaged and sent off for tests. 

David found Ronnie lurking near the vending machines, holding what David recognized as Patrick’s winter coat. Accepting it, he immediately noticed that was damp and smelled terribly sour. “You’re gonna wanna dry clean that,” she said helpfully.

“Yuck.” David shuddered then pinched the coat between his thumb and index finger and held it out as far in front of himself as he could manage without flinging it across the room. “Have they told you anything?”

“Nah. They’re waiting for you.” Ronnie said gently. David hadn’t spent any time alone with Ronnie, ever, but he didn’t understand why she and Patrick couldn’t get along; why it was so hard for them to peacefully coexist. “I’m gonna take off, if it’s okay. I had some consults that I had to move around and your mom will have my spot if I miss Jazzagals rehearsal again tonight.”

“It’s fine, Ronnie, you’ve done more than enough. Thank you.” Neither of them were huggers, although David probably could have used about a thousand right then, so Ronnie gave a half-hearted lean in and David did one of those we’re-just-courting awkward side-hugs, and by the time it was over, they’d both realized why their original instincts had been correct. “Mhm. Yes, thank you for helping him.”

Ronnie stood still for a moment, wiping her palms on the front of her thighs. “He accused me of kidnapping him three times on the drive over. I almost dropped him off at one of the Amish farms.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Although, Patrick probably would have done fine at one of the Amish farms. With his forearms so prime for butter churning; they would have loved him.

“I know that sometimes he gets kind of carried away, but he really is a good person.”

“I know.” Ronnie’s jaw tensed a little, and she rubbed at her sleeve like she was trying to soothe an itch or a pain there. “Karen tells me all the time that I’m a different person when it comes to competition. That I don’t know when to quit. That I can get a little high strung.”

That sounded exactly like someone else that David knew. “It’s important to him, all this sport stuff, and if he’s hurt—” 

“He’s gonna be okay, David.” Ronnie patted his shoulder awkwardly. “Tell him we can call the whole thing off if he wants to and we’ll resume our rivalry on the baseball field in the spring.”

“If you were in his position, would you call it off?”

Ronnie shook her head slowly and took a deep breath. “Listen, what if we just hit pause until he’s feeling better? A few weeks, he’ll be good as new and we can do this snowball fight the old-fashioned way. No more sneak attacks.”

“I mean, I can’t speak for him, but…” David trailed off as a nurse approached.

“Mr. Rose, I can take you back to see Mr. Brewer now,” she said, and David looked back at Ronnie, who hadn’t yet moved to leave.

“Tell him I hope he feels better, and I’ll send him the bill for the window.”

“Thanks, Ronnie.” David smiled and followed the nurse back through the double doors marked _ Triage, _heart racing even though he knew that Patrick was alright. 

Patrick was sitting dazedly on the edge of the gurney when David found him, hair mussed, eyes sort of glassy. “I think you might have been right about this not being a good idea,” he said to the air next to David. His eyes were still pretty unfocused.

“What happened?” David asked gently, moving to sit next to Patrick on the bed, then curling up around him, body flooding with relief when he realized that he’d managed it to keep it together this whole time and that Patrick was actually safe. The relief felt almost as good as Patrick, pliant in his arms.

“Let’s just say that Sun Tzu and I both forgot to account for icy sidewalk conditions.”

“And you broke a window at the store?”

“Oh god.” Patrick scrubbed at his face with both hands. “I was hoping I’d imagined that.”

“Apparently not.” David said helpfully. “Ronnie says that she’ll send someone to fix it.”

At that, Patrick groaned again. “Oh no.”

“You’re really okay?” 

“My head hurts, my ears are ringing, and I’m pretty sure I called the radiologist Mom at one point, but yeah, I’m okay.” 

At that point, the nurse stopped by to give Patrick his discharge instructions, which included strict bedrest and screen avoidance, as well as a joke prescription for a cease-fire, since apparently loopy Patrick had listed his reason for the emergency visit as “ongoing snowball war.”

He was really okay.

* * *

“Are you sure you don’t want to play, David? You could be the VIP,” Patrick asked a few weeks later as they stood on the sidewalk in front of the store, watching as people gathered for the heavily advertised, heavily gambled upon, townwide snowball fight.

Over Patrick’s head, David surveyed the developing crowd, noticing how many people were warming their necks with the blue Patrick supporter scarves. He didn’t understand why he was feeling so anxious since he wasn’t the one about to have balls thrown at _ his _ face. Which, to be fair, on a regular day was something he might have invited. 

Abandoning the silliness of the thought, David shook his head vehemently. “No, it’s too cold for barbecue.”

“Well, sometimes we do the sports without a barbecue.”

“I know and that’s patently ridiculous. What would a person even run toward?”

Patrick smiled, affection reflected in his eyes. “I mean, I can only speak for myself, but sometimes there’s someone on the sideline that catches my eye.”

“Oh, you mean me.” David responded with a seductive little chest shimmy and Patrick nudged his way closer, settling a gloved hand on the front of his coat.

He nodded, warm eyes scanning David from head to toe. “You look very cute today.”

David gestured down to his unfortunate ‘my boyfriend is voluntarily participating in a massacre’ ensemble—complete with Patrick’s hideous plaid curling pants. “This is my last selfless act as your boyfriend, just so you understand.”

“You didn’t have to wear them. You know we’re not curling, right?”

“No, I know, but Kurt Russell was wearing a very similar pair when his team won the Olympic gold medal and I just felt like it held a certain kind of symmetry. And after watching hours and hours of those movies in preparation for today, I can confidently say: these pants are actually only the tip of the poor fashion choice iceberg.”

“Well, I do like you in my pants.”

“Mhm. I like being...in your pants.” Even if they most closely resembled his grandmother’s old afghan and ended three inches above his ankle. They were certainly...a look. And as luck, or extremely proficient planning would have it, he was also wearing a very long coat.

David took that opportunity to present Patrick with the gift that he’d spent most of Patrick’s convalescence repurposing. The helmet had previously been pink and technically belonged to Alexis, but it was now painted a beautifully burnished blue, the only color of spray paint that David had deemed even remotely acceptable, and it matched his Patrick-supporter scarf perfectly. He’d even managed to stencil a tasteful PB over the left ear, with a white rose intertwined through the B.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever told you this but I am extremely fond of your skull. In its current, intact form.”

“You may have mentioned.” Patrick accepted the helmet with a tender smile and sort of cradled it in his arms. “You did this for me?”

“Well, I hadn’t gotten high in a while and those paint fumes really brought me back. So in a way, I did it for both of us. And I may do it again.”

“Okay. No.”

Ronnie, wearing a blue scarf, jogged up just as Patrick was gently dropping the helmet to the sidewalk and pulling David into his arms. “Hey you two.”

David didn’t try to hide his surprise when Patrick’s jaw didn’t tense. “Hey, Ronnie. Nice scarf.” 

“Just wanted to wish you luck out there today.” She glanced down at the helmet, where it sat on the sidewalk and David braced for the insult or the cutting words. “You paint that?” She pointed to Patrick.

“No, David did.” Even after years of being with Patrick, David still wasn’t used to someone he slept with looking proud about something he’d done. But Patrick did. He was actually beaming a little, still holding David tightly. “Isn’t it amazing?”

“It’s great.” She agreed. “You know, next year, we should see if we can get a group together to head into Jasper for their yukigassen tournament. Between the two of us, I bet we could assemble a killer team.”

The corners of Patrick’s eyes crinkled with an easy grin. “Oh yeah, definitely. I read about that festival when we were researching some ideas for today, and it sounds incredible.” David could vouch for that because he’d been the one reading _ to _ Patrick at the time, thanks to the concussion. “But yeah, we should definitely look into putting a team together.” 

“Great, I’ll stop by the store early next week and we’ll iron out some details.” Ronnie gave Patrick’s shoulder a little shove as she started to leave. “And David, call me. Karen wants to have you two over for a game night.”

“Actually, six people is really optimum for—” David was stopped by Patrick’s foot kicking his own. “Yes. Of course, we will call you.” He gave Ronnie a final wave and turned back to Patrick, who had begun rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet expectantly. “Wow, and zero cheese changed hands.” David marveled before Patrick threw him a dirty look. 

“Or someone’s meddling boyfriend might have tried to protect his honor while he was stuck in a metal tube getting his brain scanned.”

“I did no such thing.” David pretended to be scandalized. He couldn’t help it if he’d missed his calling as a diplomat. 

“She also sent me a bunch of sick people emojis that said ‘Get Well Soon’ right after I got home from the hospital. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” 

David shook his head. He actually didn’t. David could not imagine Ronnie using emojis for any purpose unless she was being held at gunpoint, but maybe Karen did for her what David and Patrick often did for each other: pushed one another to be better. 

“It seemed...odd and I just kind of thought it was another hallucination from my head injury.” 

“And you didn’t say anything?” David gasped and Patrick gave him a beleaguered look in response. Patrick had not been the easiest patient, and they were both still a little raw from the experience. David traced at the tiny scar under Patrick’s eyebrow with the pad of his thumb, grateful that he didn’t have any additional lasting effects from the last few weeks. 

David could feel the frown on his own face fading as Patrick’s eyes lowered to watch David’s lips. 

“Thank you for taking care of me, David,” Patrick said into David’s open and now hungry, waiting mouth. Patrick tasted like mint toothpaste and hot chocolate, and there was a patch of stubble he’d somehow managed to miss while shaving that chafed against David’s skin. His kiss was deep and slow and full of promise, and David didn’t want to let him go.

Of course, at that moment, the whistle blew to signify that it was to assemble for the ensuing snowball fight. David reluctantly drew back, chest still heaving a little, and he preened a little when he realized that Patrick was looking just as wrecked as he felt.

“I guess I’ve gotta go, huh?” Patrick said, still panting.

David gave him a playful swat. “Now you go out there and win one for the Big Dipper.”

Patrick did a double-take and then smiled broadly. “Um, it’s actually just the Gipper, David.”

“Well, that makes no sense.” David couldn’t swear to anything though because the pep talk videos really had started to run together after a while. He was pretty sure there was a US president in that movie. Which also made no sense. Maybe it _ had _ been the fumes.

“Win one for the Big Dipper makes more sense to you?” Patrick puzzled. “Which one of us got hit in the head?”

“I’m sorry, I was painting while I was watching and like I said...”

“Fumes.” Patrick said, nodding, and slipped his gloved fingers between David’s, eyes glittering in the midday snow. “Thank you.”

It was hard to take a deep breath in the crisp winter air, but David didn’t think that was why his chest ached. 

“Clear eyes. Full hearts. Can’t lose.” He’d liked those clips the best; they were the most modern, and Taylor Kitsch and Kyle Chandler were both very easy on the eyes. Connie Britton was also fucking fantastic; David was going to write sonnets about her hair later, he was already outlining something in his journal. “Schitt’s Creek forever.”

Patrick leaned forward and gave David a slow, sweet, chaste kiss. “You’re ridiculous, and I love you.”

“So just, bear with me, this is my first time off-book,” David said as he squeezed Patrick’s biceps, firm even through the layers of down and thermal underwear and sweaters. “You were born to win this snowball fight. And you were meant to be here. This is your time. Now go out there and take it.” 

Recognition flashed across Patrick’s face as he watched David through wide, watery eyes. “David.”

Throat tightening, David actually felt himself blinking back his own tears. Fucking Kurt Russell and his stupid sideburns. “I’m proud of you. Leave no doubt,” David rapped his knuckles a few times on the top of Patrick’s helmet, and Patrick wordlessly slid it on over the curls that he’d be cutting once spring brought its thaw. 

Winter wasn’t going to last forever, and neither was this snowball fight. David’s love wasn’t about to trot off to war. He was going to amble up the street to a town wide snow flinging competition and there’d be hot chocolate and butter tarts afterward and everything was going to be fine. He felt silly even thinking about this like it was somehow high-stakes, because, no, it wasn’t. It wasn’t, but it meant something to Patrick, and if it was important to Patrick, David wanted him to be able to have it, without fear of somehow losing it.

Patrick had already started away to join the others with that little sauntery walk of his, but he turned back, slowly removing the newly painted helmet and tucking it under his arm the way Tom Cruise might have during _ Top Gun_. His mouth pinched in a frown. “But what if I don’t win?”

David squeezed his shoulders tightly. “Then I’ll be here. And we’ll get through the ensuing chaos together.”

“They’ll probably throw a ticker tape parade,” Patrick rolled his eyes with an exasperated fondness. 

“Then we’ll steal all their ticker tape.”

“I’d like that.” David could hear the relief in Patrick’s voice. All of that research, all of that planning, all of that philosophy and military strategy, and it had come down to this: “I love you.”

“I love you.” David leaned in to deliver a soft kiss to his still unfairly worried boyfriend. Soon the adrenaline would kick in and Patrick would be fine, carried off by a wave of semi-toxic masculinity and testosterone and the will and desire to emerge victorious. Balls would be flying everywhere.

“Break a leg, honey.” 

“It’s good luck, David.”

“Good luck, Patrick.”


	2. Chapter 2

> **Author's Note:**

> [](<div)<https://frozenover-asnowballschance.tumblr.com/post/188344570356/davids-gorgeous-map>  

> 
> Important Links and Definitions  
[Patrick's unfortunate curling pants but not an exact duplicate. *artistic license*](https://media.pri.org/s3fs-public/story/gallery/RTR30HJR.jpg)  
[Yukigassen](http://www.yukigassen-intl.com)  
[](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0032676/</a>The%20origin%20of)[https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0032676/](url)The origin of "Win One for the Gipper"  
[https://suntzusaid.com](url)Shout out to Sun Tzu, without whom the strategy in this fic would never have been possible  
[Herb Brooks/Kurt Russell Speech in Miracle](https://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCr_RA91ky4)  
[https://www.salon.com/2010/05/01/friday_night_lights_explainer/ ](url)Kyle, Connie, Taylor: Legit Snacks of Friday Night Lights  

> 
> Dear Prompter:  
I hope that this is even just a small bit of what you were hoping to read! 
> 
> Dear Not-Prompters:
> 
> This sucker took a village and I'm sure that the village is glad that I'm finally going to stop DMing them my woes and demanding they read it, then pet my hair and tell me I'm pretty.
> 
> To Emu: Thank you for Canadian concussion protocol links!
> 
> To Cinna: Thank you for the early encouragement and for being willing to look at it when you should have been sleeping or writing or doing anything else but looking at this.
> 
> To Rhetorical Questions: You unbelievably talented unicorn of a person. Thank you for your encouragement and for your beautiful graphic design and for your patience with my inability to write one plot and stick to it.
> 
> To This-is-not-Nothing: thank you for all your beautiful support and brain-storming and the several lines that I just pretty much stole from those sessions. Not mention all the hair-petting and listening to me whine.
> 
> To Olive2read: Thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you for reading so many terrible-werrible versions of this thing and for being patient with me. I appreciated your willingness to give me "the works" and I bet you didn't realize how many times you would have to go read it again, but I am super grateful that you did. It took some doing but I finally found my voice!
> 
> Citizens of the Rosebudd: you are all wonderful benevolent creatures that I could not live without and please keep writing so that I do not have to. Thank you all so much for the forced validation and copious aggressive cheerleading.


End file.
